The Shepherd
by jae-vous
Summary: Who is the shepherd that comes to collect these lost souls? Who guides them back to peace?


A call before dawn has properly broken stirs the two agents instantly, regardless of the depth of their slumber or the exhaustion of the prior day, or heated activity they engaged in mere hours before. And her partner seems to be learning from her over the years after all, for he blindly but adeptly makes to grab the correct cell phone resting with her identical device on her bedside table. He shuffles himself beneath silky, high-end sheets that waft with her scent and indicate her feminine taste and likely high-end origins, and a smooth leg slides, warm and tempting, between his as he silences the shrill ring and brings the phone to his ear.

She smirks into his shoulder as she hears the familiar, gruff voice command their assembly at a crime scene forty miles away in half as many minutes. They are each used to the unpredictable nature of their jobs and familiar with their leader's impossible demands, and so both retired solder and street-cop-turned-federal agent merely sigh in unison at the turn their day has already taken. Once her calf makes its way higher between his legs, though, his attention immediately suffers, diverting to the now awake woman playfully toying with him, caressing him with a touch that sets his nerve endings on fire.

But this call to arms is different than their normal case; as she brushes kisses across his shoulder while he asks vaguely for clarification of their bosses demands, something cold and black passes through him, and he freezes under her stilled assault of his skin. Pulling her lips away from his radiating warmth, he turns to look at her with something but painful and familiar. His eyes spell regret, and she knows from the hushed tone of the other caller this case would linger with them for the weeks to come.

* * *

They arrive together roughly forty minutes after their summon. They may be flying under the radar, but there's nothing suspicious about her partner picking her up on his way to the crime scene – her place, after all, conveniently in the same direction – but their worries about their clandestine activity being unraveled by their bosses sixth sense are unnecessary.

When they arrive, his eyes are far away, and though she'd never met the child, never seen a picture - the reflection of his late daughter is evident in his piercing blue gaze. Turning to locate her partner, she finds him rigid and hunched near the back of Ducky's van; five body bags is her quick count, and three far too small to exist rest between the two, adult sized shrouds. She looks up at the Victorian house they've set up camp, and she thinks if it weren't for the still dark sky and chill creating early morning dew that keeps the shrubs and flowers hidden and clings to the white picket fence, this house would look much like the defacto, american-esque dream. Death hangs heavy in the air. She shivers unwillingly, and she suddenly aches for the warmth of her partner's touch, yearns to be once more tangled with him in her bed. Gibbs approaches from behind her, in the silent way he's long since mastered.

"Any survivors?" Her voice is clinical, clipped. It is the only way they know in this line of work. To hope would only make the disappoint and pain seep too deeply into their bones. She doesn't expect a happy outcome here, today. Still, his answer surprises her.

"One." She turns sharply to look at him, and in his normally unreadable expression lies overwhelming empathy. "The youngest daughter. Three years old, looks like."

As if knowledge of her existence suddenly makes her attuned to the child, she turns sharply, and her eyes fall on her partner once more, only this time, he's crouched down before a small figure.

"You two with her." Gibbs doesn't wait for her reply, nor her stricken look, but his tone is encouraging and confident and she has no choice to swallow her doubt, and a little bit of pride his faith in her induces, too.

Tony's gathered the little girl into his arms and is murmuring soothing words into her wild wisps of hair as she makes her way towards them. Green eyes meet brown, and the depth of emotion she finds behind his eyes never fails to overwhelm her. Others communicate by words; they, by long looks and touch that either heals or stings.

She's known her fate for some time now. For almost as long as she has known him, if she were to be honest with herself. And not for the first time, but maybe with the most serious consideration she's given the thought, she wonders about what comes next for them in their future. She smiles softly as Tony wipes a tear from innocent eyes with a fragile touch, and visions of him with a child of complimenting features shared by the two of them pull a harsh breath from her throat. She never entertained the idea of tending to bruised knees and bumps, to blowing out birthday candles nor first days of school.

She runs her hand briefly over her partner's back as she settles beside him, and she doesn't have to wonder who caused her priorities to change and when, exactly, her future rebuilt itself. The little girl turns tearily to her, and trembling lips and rosy cheeks don't quite settle as beautifully along her features without the innocence robbed from her eyes too young, too violently, too soon. She trembles against Tony's torso, clinging to his windbreaker as she hides behind a small fist and thick, dark curls.

"Don't be afraid." Her partner murmurs, and it's not the first time she's heard those gentle words uttered hushed and soothing in the same sentence.

As Tony pulls the little girl into his embrace, her heart both flutters and drops with mourning. She traces the little girl's spine with tentative fingers, twisting and untangling her curls as she sobs into Tony's coat.

Ziva's always wondered if it was wrong to want a child in a world that takes them back. And she knows her partner wonders much the same. They've seen too much, know too much, to not question this time and time again. But as she moves closer and listens to Tony soothe the little girl with a tenderness she's never seen, she's reminded that in this world, sometimes children are left, rather than taken, with no answers and a million questions of why. Who is the shepherd that comes to collect these lost souls? Who guides them back to peace? Tony's hand finds hers, presses their palms against the little girl, hold her a little tighter, together.

Perhaps this is her answer.


End file.
